


Latitude and Longitude: Sailing Towards Fate

by thedreamersofthedayaredangerousmen



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 1700s British Navy AU, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamersofthedayaredangerousmen/pseuds/thedreamersofthedayaredangerousmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1785, and the HMS Bravo of the British Navy is setting sail for a four year mission patrolling the waters of the Caribbean. For Second Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick, this is the chance to prove himself. For Able Seaman Walter Hasser, it is a new beginning.<br/>Few things are certain. The food will be awful, someone will get scurvy, there are pirates out there, the French will probably shoot at you and the Captain will most certainly get you killed.<br/>What is uncertain is whether mermaids or Davy Jones exist, if the Marines and Sailors will ever get along or how long it takes a Yorkshireman to get drunk or if he is just really good at faking it.<br/>All that the men of the Bravo truly know, is that they are in for one hell of a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So I always love a good AU, especially one involving our boys from Generation Kill.  
> All of the ranks and titles used are ones I have found online, and I've tried to match them up the best that I can with the characters.  
> As always, I own nothing, everything is the property of HBO and Evan Wright. This work is based purely on the fictional portrayal of the characters from Generation Kill and is in no way representative of the real men of Bravo Company and First Recon.

 

Our story starts on a blustery morning in Portsmouth, 1785.

Seagulls were flying against the wind, seemingly hovering in mid air as they made no headway against the strong gusts. Tipping it's wing down, one of them breaks formation and falls in a white streak towards the rolling waves of the harbour. It disappears briefly under the water, emerging seconds later with a beak full of silvery fish, the water cascading off its back glinting in the bright spring sun.

Second Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick stands on the dock below, watching as the seagull turns toward land and flies away.

Nate had always thought that sailing, the feel of the sea beneath him, the smell of the spray and sound of sails snapping in the wind was the greatest feeling a man could experience. But in that small moment on that windy morning he felt wistfully envious of that gull. To fly, to be free, to have the ability to go anywhere on its own power, without the need of a ship or a boat created by man, that was heaven, he thought.

“Will that be all mista'?”

Nate tore his eyes from the retreating speck of the gull and instead turned his attention to the boy who had spoken to him. Beside him was a small handcart, laden with a sea chest and a tied bundle of blankets. Jim, one of the lads who worked at the inn, had offered to help him to transport his worldy belongings to his new home.

Nate nodded his assent, tossed the boy a coin for his trouble and turned to view the ship bobbing next to the dock.

The _Bravo_ was every inch the newly fitted ship Nate had been expecting. She wasbuilt especially for her role in patrolling the Caribbean, shallow on the draught, plentiful sails for taking advantage of the winds skirting the islands and heavy anchors with strong chains to resist the ravaging autumn storms. She practically gleamed, and the smell of tar and wood assaulted his senses.

Nate's first captain had always told him and his fellow midshipmen that judging a ship was like judging a horse.

“A horse can be fine and pretty, with good bearing” he had told his eager young charges, “but if it doesn't feel right, if there isn't a feeling in your gut telling you that you can trust it to carry you through anything, then always be on your guard. Because you might not know what it has in store for you.”

Nate smirked at the memory, Captain Morene had always been a little eccentric, but he couldn't help thinking back on that advice. As he stood in front of the _Bravo_ , he didn't just see a good ship, he felt as though he had found a safe place to call home.

…

“Hey, Brad! I think I've just spied our new Second Lieutenant! He looks like he's about twelve, maybe you should go and scare his balls to dropping with some of your Iceman demeanour?”

“'Demeanour'? Where did a sister fucking, inbred collection of shit such as yourself learn a word like that?”

“You wound me Brad, I'll have you know Norfolk is full of incredibly intelligent people such as myself”

“Remind me never to go to Norfolk, ever.”

“Duly noted Lieutenant. But seriously, he looks fucking lost, go and help him before someone completely inept does it and ruins our reputation as the best sailors in the fucking world.”

This exchange took place on the upper deck of the forecastle. Coxswain Joshua Person, known as Ray for no discernible reason, was using a spyglass to look at the young Lieutenant. Of course, he completely ignored the fact that Fick was standing on the harbour literally twenty metres away, and the use of a spyglass was faintly ridiculous.

Lieutenant of the Marines Brad Colbert, on the other hand, did know this.

“Ray, put down that goddamned spyglass right now, the only person who looks inept around here is you.”

Ray reluctantly removed the glass from his eye and turned to Brad, resigned and expecting the tirade that was coming his way.

“And don't lump me in with you lot, I'm a Marine, not a sailor. Have you not noticed that while you wear white and blue like a fucking pansy, I'm here wearing a red tunic like a warrior.”

“Yeah, because nothing says “warrior” like a tunic that makes you a target from fucking miles away. Seriously, you Marines have such a fucking death wish.”

Brad sighed, hiding a smirk

“Sometimes I think death would be a release from seeing your ugly mug every day.”

“Now you really do wound me Brad” Ray wailed, clutching at the sleeve of his companion, “how will I ever go on?”

“Shut up Ray. Go and find Griego or the Captain and tell them who has arrived, I'll go and help him get his gear stowed.”

“Aye aye sir!” And with an utterly over the top salute, accompanied by some sort of bow, Ray darted away to the Captain's quarters.

…

The Marine Lieutenant needn't have bothered dealing with Ray.

Gunner Antonio “Poke” Espera was already having a relatively shitty day. He was missing his wife and children, hundreds of miles away across an ocean. That would be enough to piss someone off. What made Poke's life even more annoying was that his idiot of a Captain had put in a request for only half the amount of cannon shot than was necessary for a voyage and deployment of the length that they were to embark upon.

Because of this, he had had to pull out all the stops to convince the armoury that his ship deserved more shot than all of the other ships in Portsmouth, of which there were many.

It also didn't help his case that he was black. In fact, it made it doubly hard, and he had had to give up and return to his ship empty handed, no doubt to be chewed out by his Captain for not doing a job that he wasn't really meant to do.

So to be confronted by an eager eyed, fresh faced junior Lieutenant with a sea chest at his feet and a bundle under his arm made Poke question his faith and sanity.

“Sailor,” the Lieutenant began, “I was wondering if you could put me in the direction of Captain Shwetje, I am yet to report to him.”

Trying to wipe all sense of frustration from his tone Poke replied “Yes sir, I can. I need to see him myself, so I'll take you to his quarters.”

'Great', Poke thought to himself, 'I'm going to be on babysitting duty whilst we still don't have the shot we need, and we leave port tomorrow.'

Poke was content to simply show the Lieutenant to the Captain and then make a swift exit to find Colbert or Pappy so that he could vent, but it seemed the young officer was in a companionable mood and wanted to chat.

“Second Lieutenant Nate Fick.” He said, he even stuck out his fucking hand to shake.

Only to be polite Poke obliged him, “Gunner Espera, but the men call me Poke.”

Poke had tried to be as businesslike as he could without being rude, but Fick still beamed at him.

“A pleasure to meet you Gunner, I look forward to serving with you.” The earnest look in his gaze didn't dim.

'Serving with you?' Poke was already questioning the overall merit of the senior officers on his ship, 'kid isn't gonna last a fucking month'.

He thought that with introductions out of the way that he could get back to silently cussing his Captain, but as they walked up the gangplank and on to the busy deck of the _Bravo_ Fick asked “what was it that you needed to see the captain about? If it is important I'll try not to take up too much of the Captain's time.”

Poke re-evaluated his opinion on the Lieutenant. He might seem naive and too eager, but he was also observant.

“In truth sir, what I need to discuss with the Captain is pretty fucking important, sir.” He was going out on a limb that the officer wouldn't reprimand him for his language. Fick merely raised his eyebrow, so Poke continued.

“See, we don't have enough shot for the voyage, and I wasn't able to convince the Navy stores to give us any more than we had requested.”

Nate was about to enquire if they had thought about sending one of the officers down to add some clout to their argument when they were interrupted.

“About to school the Lieutenant on the white man's prejudice Poke? Shame on you.” Ray leant against the side of the ship with a manic grin.

“Then again, I'm surprised you ain't railing against the white man's stupidity since it was the Captain's fault in the first place.” Both of Nate's eyebrows rose at that comment and he turned to the sailor who had addressed him.

The sailor leaning against the railing of the main deck was small, thin and wiry. His mop of black hair was covered by the cap that most of the sailors on the ship wore. On such a small frame, his uniform hung off him in a way that made it look like he was a child. However, Nate saw that he exuded a confidence that suggested he was content with himself, and also possessed a mischievous glint in his eye that made him want to disregard his frankly insubordinate comment.

“I'm sure the captain has had a lot on his mind. Getting a ship ready to leave port requires many things, I'd like to see you attempt to write the same amount of correspondence as a captain is required to do.” Nate countered in a measured tone. He wanted to defend his captain, as was his duty, but also gain a working relationship with the men. The difficulty being an officer was trying to find a balance between respect and familiarity.

“Oh hell no would I do that. I'm just the guy who steers the ship, I don't want to run it.” Ray stepped forward and into a more respectful posture when speaking to a senior officer.

“Then perhaps you should temper your comments about the competence of our captain.” The coxswain began to look nervous at that, so Nate added; “When you are around officers at least.”

Ray sighed dramatically and leant further against the rail. “Oh thank god, for a moment there I thought the new lieutenant was gonna have me flogged.” Poke merely snorted at Ray's histrionics.

“Yeah, 'cos if you got flogged man, you wouldn't pass out, you'd die.” Ray began to argue but Poke simply said “you're so skinny man, one slash of the cat would tear you in two.”

“I'll have you know Gunner Espera, I am a manly man, who has seen battle. I have scars and everything, look!” Ray began to lift his shirt when a shout came from the foredeck.

“RAY! Stop giving the Lieutenant a show that he really does not want to see!”

'This boat does seem to be full of characters' Nate mused as a tall marine made his way down the steps of the foredeck onto the main deck.

As he drew closer Nate noted the sureness of his gait, his long legs moving him swiftly but steadily towards them. As his features came into view Nate found himself studying a fair face, noble features and direct eyes a colour bluer than the sky above. Short blond hair peeked out from underneath his tricorn hat, and Nate wondered how many women had fallen under this marines' spell. He seemed to have a magnetism that inexplicably drew any around him. Ray was standing at full attention now, and even Poke who had seemed very laid back was standing a little straighter.

Brad glowered at Ray.

“What did I tell you about finding the Captain?”

Nate snapped back into the real world, blushing slightly for having stared so long at this marine. 'It really would not do to be so unperturbed by a handsome marine'. He chided himself. It wasn't appropriate at all.

“I was on my way Brad, okay? Anyway, Poke has already found him.”

“Well go off and do whatever a coxswain is meant to do when he isn't steering the ship.”

Brad turned to the Lieutenant.

“Lieutenant of the Marines Brad Colbert, sir.” Brad neatly saluted. “My apologies for Ray, he was kicked in the head as a child.” Poke stifled a snort. “And welcome to the _Bravo_.” He added, almost as an afterthought.

Nate returned the salute and replied “Second Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick, a pleasure to meet you and thank you for your warm welcome.”

His manner of speaking and the way he introduced himself betrayed Fick for who Brad thought he was, a gentleman officer. The Lieutenant really did look young, he couldn't fault Ray for noticing that. He looked to Brad to be around 19 or 20. Fick had the classical good looks of a young gentleman who would have the ladies of the ton falling over themselves. Soft features, lips in the perfect shape of cupid's bow and bright green eyes almost shining with earnestness.

'Good god' Brad mused, 'we have ourselves an idealist on board'.

“I can take the Lieutenant to the Captain now Poke.”

“Don't worry Brad, I'm on my way to see him now.”

“Did you get the shot?”

“Pfft! What do you think? That they'd let a black man take more than he was owed? Hell no did I! They sent me back here like the black bitch I am” Poke paused, seemingly remembering who was also listening to the conversation. “Apologies for the language sir.” Nate simply resisted the urge to grin.

“Apology accepted Gunner. Although I believe I can help with your armament issue.” Brad and Poke side-eyed each other but did not interrupt the Lieutenant.

“If you could see that my belongings are stowed away Lieutenant, I will accompany the Gunner to the stores and see what I can do to appease the situation.”

Fick's orders were concise, direct and hinted of someone who was used to having them followed. Brad began to realise that he might have underestimated the new officer.

“Aye aye sir, Lilley!” he yelled at a passing seaman. The man came to a stop and stood at attention.

“Take the Lieutenant's belongings down to his bunk and make sure they're secured.”

“Aye Sir.” With that Lilley hefted the chest under one arm and Nate's bundle under the other, and set off down below decks.

Nate was surprised to find no hint of animosity toward the marine. On his previous ships he had often observed tensions, even downright hatred, between the sailors and the marines. Many sailors saw the red-jackets as landlubbers who had no place on a boat. The marines in turn thought the common sailor to be undisciplined and dangerous to the officers on board. There was a reason that the marines slept between the officers and the enlisted men.

“Sir,” Brad turned once again to face the Lieutenant, “I suggest that Poke returns to his guns and makes sure they are all correct, I can accompany you to the stores, the reappearance of the Gunner at a location where he has probably caused a bit of a fuss may not be of much help.”

Nate considered this. “What say you Gunner?”

Poke merely shrugged and said, “sure, who am I to disagree with the Iceman? Sir.” He saluted and moved off to help two sailors move a carronade.

The two men made their way down the gangplank and headed off in the direction of the stores. In the short journey, Brad made polite conversation with the new Lieutenant, and was surprised to find that not only was he relatively competent, he had also seen action.

“I spent most of my time on my Third Mate's ticket off the coast of India and saw action against the French at the end of the American War.” Fick was direct and to the point and made to effort to elaborate.

Brad stifled his urge to overstep his rank and ask for more information. Whilst he had been getting shot at on the New England coast, the French had decided to try to take over English trade ports in India. Up against a superior force the British Navy had beaten them back.

The idea of the mild mannered Lieutenant in such a fierce battle seemed incongruent.

Nate on the other hand was interested to hear about the events of the American War.

“Not much to say sir.” Brad shrugged. “We fought them, won some battles, lost some battles. Lost the whole war in the end.”

Nate noted that the Marine seemed neither pleased or upset by these events, merely acquiescing that they had happened, storing them away to be unpicked later and simply getting on with the job at hand.

When they arrived at the large storehouse Fick asked a passing man where he could find the master of the stores, and was waved in the general direction of a desk to the rear of the building.

Sitting behind the desk was a sailor of around forty. Greying hair was pulled back and tied with a blue rag and a walking cane was leant against the chair.

Hearing footsteps he looked up, and immediately his face broke into a grin.

“Mr Fick if I live and breathe! Back in Portsmouth again after all these years!”

Nate returned the wide smile, and grasped the other man’s hand when it was offered.

“Hello Mr English, it seems I am back in this fine town.”

“And a Lieutenant too I see.” English was eyeing the insignia on his sleeve. “It seems like yesterday that you were a young midshipman on board for the first time.”

“Yes, it does seem so.”

English turned to Brad and in a mock whisper said; “he vomited his guts out for three days straight. I nearly a couple of times considered putting him out of his misery he looked so wretched.”

Fick coughed and Brad noticed a flush developing on his face, continuing down to his neck and underneath his collar. He had the unbidden thought of wanting to see how far that colour would extend, and what other things would cause it other than embarrassment.

“Yes, thank you Mr English. I'll have you remember that after those frightful first days I never threw up again, not even after battle.”

“No sir, of course not. One of the finest sailors I ever met.” English said this seriously, without a hint of sarcasm. “What can I do for you today Lieutenant, surely you haven't come all the way out here to see an old master whiling away his years in a dusty storehouse?”

“Whilst I would gladly while away my years with you Mr English, I'm here on official business. I have just joined my new ship and learnt that we are understocked for shot. My Gunner came here earlier today to try and get some more but failed.” Fick drew breath and continued. “I was wondering if I could call in a favour and ask you to help me acquire what we need.”

English sat back and made a hmming noise.

“What ship?” He said looking up.

“The Bravo, dock 4, berth 2.”

“As a favour to you, not your bodkin of a Captain, I'll have that shot to you by the end of the day.” He began looking through his ledger. “How much do you need?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very good reason why Brad is a Lieutenant and not a Sergeant, trust me.
> 
> As it is, here is a general breakdown of ranks:
> 
> Captain  
> First Lieutenant  
> Second Lieutenant (and so on until Fourth Lieutenant)/Captain of the Marines  
> Master/Purser/Surgeon/Lieutenant of the Marines  
> Gunner/Boatswain/Carpenter  
> Midshipmen  
> Senior Petty Officers (eg. Ropemaker)  
> Petty Officers (eg. Coxswain, Ray is quite a bit down the pecking order)  
> Junior Petty Officers (eg. Quarter Gunner)  
> Able Seaman - more than three years experience  
> Ordinary Seaman - more than a years experience  
> Landsman - less than a years experience
> 
> I'll use the end of every chapter to go over any terms that might not be in a person's ordinary vernacular.
> 
> Sea Jargon:
> 
> Shallow on the draught - Means a ship that can go in shallow waters, as there is less of it under the water.
> 
> Midshipman - very junior officer. Think of them as officers in training. Often in their early teens, would spend 3 or four years at sea and then take a Lieutenants exam to become a Fourth Lieutenant (Fourth Mate).
> 
> Coxswain - Petty Officer (senior enlisted sailor) in charge of steering and navigating the ship.
> 
> Gunner - Petty Officer (senior enlisted sailor) in charge of the guns. I think I'm insulting your intelligence here.
> 
> Shot - Anything you put into a cannon. (But not knives and forks, don't believe everything Pirates of the Caribbean tells you).
> 
> The thing about Marines and sailors not getting along was true in this period. The sailors didn't like the idea of "landsmen" being aboard. And they also did sleep between the enlisted men and the commissioned officers, because most officers were pansy fucks who were paranoid about mutiny.
> 
> Carronade - Short cannon, normally mounted on the maindeck (the top one) and used as a short range gun to be used against ships and people.
> 
> "Third Mate's Ticket" - Third Lieutenant (Mate)'s commission.


	2. On getting lead in your hammock (and other minor issues of sailing) ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Walt and realize that most of the Officers are morons.

Whilst Fick was quickly endearing himself to the Marine Lieutenant, Able Seaman Walter Hasser, formerly of Liverpool, was acquainting himself with the _Bravo_ and her slightly bewildering inhabitants.

“You're with gun crew two on the port side, with Garza, Lilley and Manimal” Quarter Gunner Lovell explained “this is where you'll eat, sleep and drink for the voyage. Garza!”

One of the men bent over the 18 pounder stood up.

“Yes Mr Lovell?”

“Get Hasser's gear stowed away and show him what's what and who's who around the ship.”

“Aye aye sir."

Lovell turned to Walt. To the kid's credit he didn't seem too perturbed by goings on. Lovell figured that he had to have some experience to gain the rank of Able Seaman, but still decided to keep an eye on the lad.

“Welcome aboard the _Bravo_ Mr Hasser, I hope your journey is a pleasant one.” Before Walt could give his thanks Lovell was marching toward another gun yelling.

“Chaffin! What in God's name are you doing with that gun! It's meant to go out of the porthole, not up your arse!”

Garza had already picked up Walt's hammock and bundle and was making his way up to the main deck.

“So, Hasser huh?”

“It's normally just Walt.”

“Well Walt, I hope you know what you're fucking doing when it comes to firing a cannon.”

“I know which end goes bang, will that be of any help?”

Garza stopped, looked back for a moment, and then laughed.

“I'm sure you'll do just fine Walt!”

After they had put away the hammock in the netting that would then be suspended over the forecastle (some sadist somewhere in the illustrious past of the British navy had decided that the sailors own hammocks would be a good defence for the officers against musket fire, not realizing that many sailors didn't appreciate finding bits of lead in their bedding), Garza gave Walt the rundown on the personnel on the ship.

“I don't know what boats you have served on, but this one is full of the craziest bastards in the navy.” He pointed to a slightly confused looking man on the foredeck, bedecked in what could only be the uniform of a Captain. “That man there is Captain Schwetje, newly commissioned from a desk job in the Admiralty.”

“Shouldn't he have at least eight years at sea to be a Captain?”

“He's done them, and his Captain's exam.” Garza sounded almost gleeful. “But he only did them six years ago, since then he's had a cushy job at Greenwich, most of us wish he had stayed there.”

Walt made no comment about insubordination, but found it troubling that they hadn't even left port and the sailors were already starting to grumble.

“The man's a certified idiot, but the bloke next to him, the Master, Greigo, is not. Shame is, he's constantly brown-nosing the Captain, and will never point out when he's wrong.” Garza's tone had hardened. “Look out for him, the Captain will get you killed but he won't mean it, from what I've heard about Griego, he might.”

“What about the Lieutenants?”

“Well, our First Lieutenant is actually a Captain who couldn't get a commission. Yeah, hard times for him. He's also a crazy bastard, but one that might kill you himself instead of letting a pirate do it.”

Walt was starting to feel slight concern. But Garza carried on.

“I haven't met the new Second Lieutenant yet, but apparently he's young with experience of battle, so he might be able to save us from stupidity.” Garza shrugged. “Who knows really. This is a new boat not all of us have served together before. All we have to work on is hearsay.”

Garza now turned to look squarely at Walt.

“One thing is for sure though, the guys on our crew are good, and we look out for each other. Even though Manimal is a Yorkshireman.”

“As a Liverpudlian I'll try not to be too offended.”

“Good luck.”

Garza then continued into the ranks of the Seamen.

Poke, the Gunner was solid, if a little abrasive at times. The Carpenter, Pappy, could plug an elephant shaped hole in the side of a ship (Walt was willing to bet that Garza had never even seen an elephant but wasn't going to call him out on it). Pappy's best friend Rudy could work similar magic with the sails and rigging and Kocher the Master's Mate was dependable and personable where Greigo was not.

Walt was also pleasantly surprised to hear that the Marine contingent were not too stand-offish either. Mike Wynn, their Captain had risen up from the ranks and was well respected, and his Lieutenant had mythic status due to exploits from the American War, but Garza told Walt that it was a story he needed to hear from the Lieutenant himself.

“More fresh meat aboard? He's almost as pretty as the last newcomer, and Brad's already snapped him up, I guess I'm stuck with the next best thing.”

A scrawny looking Sailor had turned up to ogle the new guy.

“Able Seaman Hasser, meet Ray Person, the Coxwain. This man is the most insane person I have ever had the misfortune of sailing with.” Walt was taken aback by such an introduction.

“You love me really Garza, remember that time going round the Horn? I saved all you sorry lot.”

“Which time, the first or the second time? Because I distinctly remember the first time round you clung to the wheel crying.”

“I wasn't crying, it was the salt water. Don't embarrass me in front of the good Mr Hasser.” Ray leant in conspiratorially. “Don't listen to Garza, he's full of slanders.”

A sudden flurry of action on the dock beside the boat stole attention away from the coxswain.

“I don't fucking believe it.” Poke was speechless. “Our pansy gentleman officer got us some more shot.”

The Lieutenants Fick and Colbert were striding up the gangplank looking rightly pleased with themselves.

“Gunner Espera!” Fick called. “I hope what you find in these crates is to your satisfaction.”

Poke quickly saluted and started prising the lid off one of the crates, a grin lighting up his face as he surveyed the contents.

“I am most definitely satisfied sir, thank you.”

In the meantime the Captain and Master had moved onto the main deck, sailors stopping and saluting before running off to complete their tasks.

“You're late Mr Fick, I was beginning to wander if you had got lost.” The Captain didn't sound angry, merely puzzled. Coupled with a slightly bemused expression, Nate couldn't help but think his Captain looked a bit dopey.

“On the contrary, sir, I arrived at the specified time at the dock. But I met Gunner Espera and he told me about the supply issue, I knew that an old Master that I had served with was now working in Portsmouth and decided to call in a favour.” After a beat Nate added; “I hope I wasn't overstepping my bounds sir.”

“Not at all Mr Fick.” The amused tone that accompanied this statement seemed condescending at best, Brad thought. He wanted to defend the new Lieutenant but knew that it would be a futile gesture that would get them both in trouble. “Next time though, apprise me or Mr Greigo of the situation before acting, that way we can officiate.”

No-one dared to mention that the issue had been caused by the Captain, and he should be thanking Fick for getting him out of his own mess. But they were all thinking it.

“If you would follow me Mr Fick, we have much to discuss about our upcoming mission.”

Schwetje turned and walked towards his cabin, fully expecting Fick to be trailing behind him.

For the second time that day Nate fought a blush, he strode to the cabin feeling every bit the chastised schoolboy. He wouldn't have minded it in the privacy of the Captain's cabin, but Nate had just lost respect from the men he was meant to command. Instead of embarrassment, Nate was trying to control his fury.

Brad watched the retreating form of the Lieutenant, almost feeling sorry for him, and once again questioning his own judgement when he agreed to this commission.

“Whelp, we're fucked.”

“Shut up Ray.”

“No need to get so defensive for your new piece of tail Bradley, by my honor as a gentleman I would never dream of offending him.”

“You are the furthest thing away from a gentleman imaginable Ray, and you're still not shutting up.”

…

“Our mission is to sail to the West Indies and patrol the waters between the islands.”

Schwetje, Greigo, Nate and the First Lieutenant McGraw were pouring over the maps in the Captain's cabin.

“Do we have any orders that are more specific sir? The general routes we will take, how we co-ordinate with the other ships and timetables for shore leave?”

“We're meeting with the Commodore on his flagship tonight Nate” When Nate had met his direct superior and told him to call him Nate, he had actually intended for it to be more of a private name between Lieutenants, not something to be used in front of the Captain.

As it was, Nate's opinion of his First Lieutenant was not hopeful. He had initially seemed quite earnest, but Nate was coming to realise that the man was constantly wound tight. If his five minute ramble concerning the “dirty Pirates” and “those Goddamned French” when they had first met didn't clue him in on the precarious nature of the Lieutenants' mental state, then the way he would bark out orders to men standing in front of him sealed the deal.

“Yes. Commodore Ferrando will have more details about our mission.”

“And,” interjected Greigo “everything else you mentioned can be worked out on the voyage, it is of little importance.” Seeing Nate bristle at the tone an enlisted sailor was using to address him, Greigo quickly added “sir.”

“Until then Lieutenant I'd like you to go down to see the Purser and make sure that they have got their inventories in order. Dismissed.”

Nate saluted sharply left the cabin.

When he did he let out a small sigh, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then made his way below decks.

Across the crowded and busy deck, Brad was only half listening to Ray mentally scarring Walt as he described a particularly drunken night in Malta.

Poke noticed the subject of his distraction.

“What do you think will make him break first? The stress of command or the idiots who give him orders?”

“I'd hope that he could hang on for however long it takes for him to be promoted. His next command should be a better ship than this Fourth Rate, he deserves maybe a Second or at least Third Rate posting.”

Poke tried not to let his surprise be shown.

“Never thought I'd see the day, the Iceman actually likes someone.”

“Yeah, but who could resist those lips?” Ray piped up, realizing he could get more entertainment from riling the marine than he could from scaring Walt. “I mean, I've always been enticed by a nice pair of bosoms and a tight twat, but I'd pay him to go down on me.”

“Ray.” Brad's glower was a warning. “Remember you're talking about an officer, not some penny whore that you picked up in a gin palace, show some respect.”

“But it was a compliment!” Ray began to argue, but already Brad had marched off to the forecastle.

“You have some serious problems.” Walt mused.

“See Ray,” Garza interjected, “even the new boy thinks you're fucking insane.”

…

For Nate, the rest of that day passed in a mind numbing haze of ledgers and numbers, only broken up by his first encounter with the ship's surgeon Dr Bryan.

Bryan was well kept, the early side of thirty and had a permanent scowl on his face, but seemed pleasant enough.

Evening rolled around and Nate felt exhausted as he readied himself for dinner with the Commodore on his flagship _Godfather_.

Greigo had pulled Nate aside to tell him that the Commodore had strict rules of dress, so he was expected to look well turned out otherwise it “wouldn't reflect well on the ship.”

As darkness descended, Nate found himself sitting at a sumptuously spread table, glass full of very good wine and watching his fellow officers become more and more drunk.

Commodore Ferrando had gone over the orders issued by the Admiralty before sitting down to eat. His raspy voice and direct stare capturing and holding the attention of everyone in the room.

Unfortunately, for all his bravado, Ferrando hadn't been much more specific than his Captain.

“Our orders are as follows. Sail to the Caribbean, liaise with Admiral Mattis and his main force at Kingston, then from there patrol the waters around the islands for hostile elements, maybe act as convoy escorts.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nate spied Captain Patterson, commander of the _Alpha_ , sigh and shift slightly. He seemed to be feeling the same sense of frustration as well. Could the Commodore be a convey a bit more information than that?

Sensing a kindred spirit, Nate was quite happy when he found that he was seated next to Captain Patterson for dinner. The Captain was more than willing to swap stories of his time during the American War for Nate's stories of India. They also shared quiet amusement over the antics of their fellow officers in their inebriated state.

When the wine finally made its effects known, and Nate was barely keeping his eyes open, he bade the raucous Wardroom farewell and made his way back to the _Bravo_.

Lying in his hammock, the sound of McGraw snoring obnoxiously loudly next to him, Nate decided that whilst this command would be challenging, he felt it was his duty to do as much as he could for the men to make it at least bearable.

…

Walt had also had somewhat of an interesting evening.

“One thousand leagues, two thousand leagues, three thousand leagues!” The sailors mess was hot, smelly, loud, absurd, and Walt had agreed to a drinking game.

Smacking his empty tankard on the table (previously filled with grog that had somehow been smuggled aboard the ship and not put away into the Quartermaster's stores), he made to stand up triumphantly but instead managed to get to his feet them promptly fall onto Ray sitting beside him.

“Hey hey! Don't make fast moves on me Walter boy! I'm not that easy!”

“Shut up Ray, I've met easier whores.” The grog had loosened his tongue and Walt didn't really care about offending anyone, not that Ray was easily offended.

“What did I tell you about talking to Garza?” Ray, also a bit the worse for wear, slumped forward and poked Walt on the forehead, “Slanders, every last word.”

Ray slurred on the word slanders and Walt found it so funny he giggled for five minutes straight.

Walt would wake up the next morning running for the head and wishing he was dead or at least very close to it. But that evening, among new friends and a lot of alcohol, he could care less about what the next day brought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Chapter 2. Slightly shorter this time.
> 
> Sea Jargon:
> 
> Quarter Gunner - An enlisted Seaman in charge of about four guns. It was his job to make sure they were maintained and to train the crews.
> 
> 18 pounder - A type of cannon, about in the mid range of cannon at this time. During this period there was a shift from using cast bronze guns to using iron. Bronze would last longer but iron was easier to cast.
> 
> The thing about the hammocks and netting is true, they were strung up and used to protect from sniper fire. I can't help but think it would be really annoying to go to sleep after a sea battle and find lead shot in your hammock.
> 
> Ships also had their own dedicated Carpenter, Sail and Ropemaker. They had to have everything aboard to deal with any emergency by themselves. No good springing a leak in the middle of an ocean with no-one to fix it.
> 
> Purser - A senior enlisted sailor who was in charge of most of the supplies on the ship that weren't armaments. Your own personal supplies like a hammock, eating utensils and other things a sailor had to buy from the Purser, often at a higher price than on land.
> 
> Fourth Rate - Type of ship. At this time the British Navy used a system of categorizing ships known as "rates". The largest being a First Rate, the smallest a Fifth Rate and anything smaller being a sloop or later a corvette. A Fourth Rate has a crew of about 250-300 men and 50-60 guns.
> 
> Wardroom - Literally the room where officers would gather together. Often on a Flagship before a battle to plan maneuvers. Also they would get drunk in there, a lot.
> 
> Grog - An alcoholic drink composing of rum, water, sugar and lime. It was issued as a ration daily, but of course sailors would never object to drinking more than a normal share.


	3. The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top …

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate and Brad stare at each other, Walt faces his fears.

“Master Greigo, kindly give my respects to the Bo'sun and have him cast off.” Schwetje looked out toward the horizon. “The tide is on our side and the wind is favourable, weigh anchor and let us get underway.” 

He then turned to his Lieutenants. “The Commodore told us not to expect any  trouble crossing the Atlantic, so that will give us time to run gun drills.” 

Nate nodded, it was always a good idea to keep the men  busy on an uneventful voyage, and to ensure their skills stayed sharp.

“ I shall be in my cabin gentlemen,  good day.” The Captain walked off and left his Lieutenants to run his ship.

As Officer of the Watch, it was Nate's job to pilot the ship on their first few hours at sea  and he relished the opportunity to do so.

“Two degrees to starboard Coxswain, then we will have cleared the harbour. From there, a South West bearing. We're taking a route skirting the Spanish coast and then using the trade winds to cross the Atlantic.”

“If there is one good thing about peacetime, it means that we get to sail where we please.  No bounds for his majesty's Navy eh sir?”

“Most certainly Mr Person,” Nate looked out onto the horizon, imagining the deep blue waters of the Caribbean, the smell of the sea overpowering and the wind sending spray onto the bare skin of his face, neck and hands, “most certainly.”

“Of course, peace means that there is less chance of you seeing me in action sir. And let me tell you, I'm a cold blooded warrior built for killing.”

Nate reconsidered his safety in letting this man steer a ship, only very briefly, but he still thought about it.

“I'm sure the last thing the Lieutenant will be doing in the heat of battle is looking at you Ray.” Even on a ship, with limited space, Brad was always able to sneak up on anyone, and Nate startled slightly at the sound of his voice. “But I have to agree with you on one point, peacetime sailing is nowhere near as exciting as wartime.”

“Yeah, peace sucks a hairy arse. War is the fucking answer.”

…

Compared to the evening previous, dinner that night was a sedate affair. 

The food was till good and the wine plentiful,  b ut consumption was limited by the knowledge that a sore head on a ship at sea was not pleasant.

The ship and the mission were discussed, but soon the conversation turned to the American War and the newly independent colonies.

“If you ask me,” the Captain began sagely, pausing as though his word was gospel (Brad simply thought he was actually trying to find something mildly intelligent to say), “without guidance from us, they will collapse and fail within a few years, the people will loose faith in their revolutionary government and we will take control again.”

Captain Wynn, who had been relatively silent compared to the more bombastic officers, put down his glass and said “well sir, if they can run a country as well as they ran their navies and armies, they might last a bit longer than that.”

“From someone who was also actually there, I have so say that Wynn is right.” 

Brad thought he might not get away with the blatant attack on Schwetje's past few years behind a desk, and from the way that Nate's eyes widened from where he sat across the table it seemed the Lieutenant thought the same. 

'Fuck it' he decided. “They can't half fight sir, anyone who fights that hard for something won't be giving it up in a hurry.”

The Captain didn't seem to pick up on the insult, and McGraw took this opportunity to interject.

“That is all very well and good hearing the opinion from the front lines Colbert, but I think that the generals at Horseguards and the Admirals at Greenwich have a better idea of the wider scope of things.” 

He meant to sound informed, but instead sounded more haughty.

“I think we have more to worry about from the continent than we do from the Americans.” Nate was eager to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. “Peace may be upon us now, but both Spain and France have designs on the main trade routes  and when it becomes easier for them to be at war than to be nice to us … well ...” Nate trailed off. The idea of a long continental war did not fill him with joy.

“We'll fight them sir.” 

In the candlelight Brad's eyes gleamed with a certain ferocity that made Nate suppress a shudder. The ice blue had darkened in the dim glow and Nate was suddenly all too aware of how much space the Marine took up, even from the other side of the table. 

He found himself drawn inexplicably to this man. Brad's words had been barely muttered, but they had the same impact on him as if they had been shouted.

The Captain raised his glass.

“Hear hear.” And the moment was broken.

As if from a daze Brad became aware of the fact that he was staring at Nate and quickly raised his glass as well. He turned to look at the Captain but not before seeing the expression on Nate's face. He looked like he'd just been hit round the head.

Brad spent the rest of the evening not trying to lock eyes with the man. Trying not to notice the way his lips glistened when he ran his tongue over them after sipping his wine. Or the colour the liquid stained them. Or how he bit them when he was listening to the conversation. Christ those lips were practically sinful!

He tamped down on his thoughts when he started beginning to imagine what else those lips could be used for. How they might part with a  pleasured gasp if he – no! 

His breeches already feeling uncomfortably tight, Brad shifted in his seat, trying to pay attention to what they were talking about, the food in front of him, anything.

A nything but Second Lieutenant Fick.

It was a blessed relief when the bell was rung for Last Dog Watch, and Brad stood up to excuse himself.

“Goodnight sirs.”

He was almost out of the door when he heard;

“I feel as though I must bid you good night as well, I have First Watch.”

A chorus of goodnights were given and then descended into more chatter as the Lieutenants made their way out.

They walked in a companionable silence until they came to the steps up to the main deck.

“Well, I shall see you at eight bells sir.” Brad said, looking past Nate to somewhere above his shoulder.

Nate's posture seemed to slump minutely. Nothing that could normally be registered, but Brad was already aware of every move the Lieutenant made and he barely knew  him .  Yet it felt as though he had always known him.

“Take care Lieutenant.”  Nat e seemed to want to linger, but instead made his way to the Officer's berth.

At the next eight bells, Nate dragged himself from his hammock. He had intended to get some sleep, but instead found himself pondering a certain Marine Lieutenant.

From their short interactions he found himself wanting to know more about the elusive Brad Colbert. The Marine seemed to keep apart from the men, as an officer should, but still engaged in their banter. 

Nate knew that Colbert had been raised from the ranks, and yet he saw a level of intelligence and assertiveness that he wanted to examine.

Up on the main deck,  he found Brad leaning on the side-rail of the ship and cleared his throat.

“All quiet Lieutenant?”

“Nothing to report sir.”

“Then you are relieved, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Thank you sir, you too sir.”

In the twilight hours of the day Nate pondered the  m arine, and decided that he would make it his goal to become friends with Brad Colbert. He knew that his life would certainly be more interesting if that became the case.

…

“ FIRE!”

“We are still over five minutes for three shots men.” The Captain scowled at the gunners on the maindeck. “The French can fire two broadsides every five minutes, I want this ship to do one better.”

B elow decks, the gun crews were tired, sweaty and just a bit pissed off.

It was the third day of their voyage and they had been running gun drills all morning. In the warm air along the Portuguese coast the air on the gun decks had quickly become stifling.

Walt was leaning over the barrel of his 18 pounder, breathing heavily, sweat pooling on his neck and lower back, his shirt long discarded.

“Wha' the bloody hell is the Captain trying to do here!” 

With his thick Yorkshire accent, even when 'Manimal' Jacks was trying to be quiet his voice still carried.

“What the Captain is trying to do, Jacks, is keep your sorry arses alive.” Lovell snapped. “In case you have forgotten everything about fighting in ships, I'll remind you Able Seaman. He who fires the most shit at the other ship and hits it will win, so if we learn to fire more shot in quicker time than our enemies, we will always beat them.  Try to remember that before making a stupid comment about the captain ”

Seeing that he had sufficiently cowed the sailor, Lovell moved on to the next gun.

Lilley saw his chance and slapped Manimal squarely on the back of the head.

“Are you looking for a flogging? If any of the officers had been down here you would have gotten a lashing so quickly you'd be dizzy!”

“I've got a point though right?” Manimal hissed back. “It's no good training us to stay alive if we die from exhaustion here!”

“Will both of you shut up, it's doing my head in.” Walt was still lying prostrate against the cannon.

“Still got a sore head Walt? Can't quite hold your liquor boy?” Garza had leant in and was speaking rather loudly into Walt's ear.

“No,  I'm just trying to sleep here.”

“Well you can't quite do that Walter boy, we're still at General Quarters, can't go to sleep yet.” 

Walt slumped over the gun even more.

“Can the captain just call it a day?”

Almost on cue the order to stand down was passed from the main deck. 

In a flurry of activity the guns were rolled back, tables and stools replaced. After barely a few seamless moments the gun deck was transformed into the mess area.

Walt still marvelled at how a space could be turned from one of war to such a domestic space in such a short time.

One group of men had taken out a deck of cards, another were crowded around one man who was recounting some escapade in Dover, and Walt's crew were discussing what they were going to do when they got to Kingston.

“I'll see you around lads.” Walt gathered up his shirt and slid it over his head. “I've got to go on watch.”

The sea breeze was welcome on Walt's flushed skin as he made his way over the main deck to the officer on watch, McGraw.

“Ah, Hasser, um.” Walt stood to attention as McGraw studied the watch list. “I want you on the main mast, Reyes needs help inspecting the main royal.”

'The main royal? The highest sail on the bloody boat?' Walt thought it must be a mistake.

“Uh sir, I'm a gunner, not a topman, more suited to the solid deck than rigging sir.”

McGraw stared at him over the paper in his hand.

“Are you a sailor Hasser?”

“Aye sir.”

“Then get up that main mast now.”

“Aye aye sir.”

Walt turned to look up at the main mast, his neck craning back as he saw how high he would have to climb.

“Shit.” He muttered to himself.

Ray had been observing goings on, slung his arm around Walt's shoulders and gleefully said;

“hey, if you do fall, try and aim for the water. I don't want to be the poor bugger cleaning your worldly remains off the deck.”

Ray could see Walt visibly gulp and decided not to make the comment about jam that was on the tip of his tongue.

“Get off me you inbred git, find someone else to annoy.”

Rudy Reyes, the Sailmaker was waiting for him at the base of the rigging.

“Ready to go sailor?” His expression was friendly, reassuring and Walt relaxed a little.

Rudy was quickly setting off up the rigging and Walt followed as best as he could.

If a sailor couldn't climb rigging like it was second nature then he might as well never get on a ship, but Walt was always glad he had shown skill as a gunner, because the great heights of a ship's rigging absolutely terrified him.

Over the main sail spar, barely stopping they traversed onto the next set of rigging past the main topsail. At this height if Walt fell he would be seriously injured.

He tried not to look down.

The further up they went, the more pronounced the swaying motion of the ship became. On the hot spring day the seas were calm, but Walt couldn't even begin to imagine doing this in bad weather.

By the time they got to the spar of the main topgallant Walt's heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest.

He stopped, clung to the rigging and made a stupid mistake.

He looked down.

Through the rigging he could see the deck below, and the men working and moving on it far too small to convince him that he wasn't really that high up.

The rush of blood to his head blocked out the sounds around and below him.

'I'm going to die here, I'm going to fall, I'm going to die …'

This mantra had taken root and Walt found himself paralysed with fear. He had stared down barrage after barrage of cannon fire when he was still a teenager. Seen men torn apart by flying debris. Stood on desks awash with blood. But in that moment, Walt wished he was back in any of those times. With a solid deck beneath his feet and his crew around him.

“Walt, Walt, come on brother.” A calm voice pierced through his panic. Rudy was now on the rigging beside him.

“What's the matter brother?”

“I – I – I don't, don't do being so high up.” Walt's voice was hoarse and his mouth dry. He trie d swallowing but found his throat too thick to do so. 

“I think – I think I should go down.”

“Nonsene Walt.” Rudy clasped one of his hands on the back of Walt's neck, as if to ground him and reassure him. “We're going to get up to the top of this mast, and I'm going to show you why we all signed up to this.”

Rudy could have been forceful and ordered him up there, but when Walt met his gaze he saw nothing but an earnest desire to help and see him through this.

Gulping more air, Walt began to move.

What seemed like an hour was no more than a minute, but every hand or foot movement felt like an eternity.

All the way Rudy was behind him shouting up words of encouragement. 

'Everyone should have a Rudy to follow them round', Walt's fear delirious mind suggested, 'they could do anything'.

Finally, there was no rigging, just a crow's nest with a very bemused looking sailor standing in it.

“I thought you needed three years at sea to be an Able Seaman? What took you so bloody long?”

“Relax brother.” Rudy's hand was on the back of Walt's neck again, “not everyone takes to the sails immediately.”

The sailor merely grumbled and started to climb down to the deck.

“ You stay here Walt, I'll check the sail.”

Walt was more than happy to stay clinging to the edge of the crow's nest.

As he got used to the rocking motion of the ship, he started to relax and look around. 

The strong breeze that whipped around his hair was filling the sails of the fore mast and the bowsprit before him. The white sails, bulbous and fluttering looked were like clouds, and Walt felt like this was the closest he'd ever get to flying through the skies.

His fear forgotten, he lifted his head back and gave a whoop of delight. 

Hearing the noise, Rudy looked up and saw the young sailor finally enjoying himself.

“This is sailing Walter! Nothing but you, the sea and the wind! Up here, nothing can touch us!”

Walt couldn't agree more. 

'This is what it's like to be invincible'.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
> 
> Sea Jargon: 
> 
> Bo'sun - Short for Boatswain. Is the senior crewman of the deck.
> 
> Starboard - Nautical term for "right". (Port is left)
> 
> Last Dog Watch/First Watch - Ships operated on a watch or shift system.  
> First watch: 2000 to 0000  
> Middle watch: 0000 to 0400  
> Morning watch: 0400 to 0800  
> Forenoon watch: 0800 to 1200  
> Afternoon watch: 1200 to 1600  
> First dog watch: 1600 to 1800  
> Last dog watch: 1800 to 2000
> 
> But it doesn't end there. To keep time, ships used a bell. Every half an hour the bell would be rung. eg. 0030 - one bell, 0100 - two bells and so on until eight bells, and then back to one. (the wikepdia article on the ship's bell is actually surprisingly accurate)
> 
> Gun drill - Powder was limited between ships, but Captains often wanted to keep their gunners well practiced. So they would do dry runs, with crews going through the motions of firing guns without actually doing so.
> 
> The British Navy paid close attention to rate of fire. By the time of Nelson it was boasted that for every two shots fired by the French, a British ship would fire three. It is this superiority that is held up as the reason why the British won many of the sea battles of this period.
> 
> General Quarters - If a ship was at war or needed to be on a war footing, the bell would sound a "Beat to Quarters". This basically told the crew to go to DEFCON 1 and be prepared to do battle.  
> This was another drill that Captains liked to do often to keep their crews on their toes.
> 
> Sails + Masts - There are four masts. From Stern to Bow are as follows; mizzen mast, main mast, fore mast and bowsprit.  
> The sails on the main three masts (mizzen, main and fore) from bottom to top are as follows; mainsail, topsail, topgallant and royal. (There are different names for sails on the bowsprit but if you really want to know just google it.)


	4. Doldrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we examine the main drawback of using the wind to propel ships across vast oceans ...

Eight days into their journey across the Atlantic, the wind suddenly stopped.

It was every sailor's worst nightmare.

No wind, no progress.

“This is officially worse than the time when I woke up naked in a pig sty on Christmas Eve.”

“Keep your love life to yourself Ray, there is such a thing as too much information.”

“You're just jealous cos I got some Poke, and because you didn't get any sweet loving from me.”

“I'm married Ray.”

There were only so many gun drills and Beat to Quarters that could be run before even the officers admitted exhaustion.

The men of the watch were on deck or on the rigging, whilst Nate was using their extended time to school their midshipmen.

They were a motley crew. The youngest, Christeson, only sixteen. The oldest of the lot, Stafford had taken him under his wing. And was currently helping the lad with longitude calculations. 

“There, here are our co-ordinates.” Christeson thrust his notebook at Nate.

“Well done Mr Christeson, according to your calculations we are somewhere off the coast of Mexico. Maybe we should ask Mr Person if he has been drunk for the entire voyage. Because he tells us that we are still in the middle of the Atlantic.”  Nate was smiling wryly, remembering all the hours he had slaved away learning to navigate.

“I'm just trying to expand our cultural horizons sir!” Ray shouted from across deck where he was lying prone next to Poke, trying to will the heat of the sun to leave his body. 

Christeson had turned to Stafford with a frown.

“What did we do wrong?”

The two lads went back to hunching over the notebook. Muffled 'I don't know' and 'the Lieutenant thinks we're idiots' and 'he only thinks you're an idiot idiot' being heard every now and again.

Nate leant against the mast and closed his eyes briefly, the heat making him drowsy. He considered how long he would wait before telling them that they forgot to carry the ten. 

“Shit we forgot to carry the ten!”

“Stafford you're a genius!”

…

In the bowels of the ship, the men not on watch dozed or lazed around in the comparative cool.

Brad was cleaning a musket, chatting idly with Pappy and Kocher.

“So he knew that we were sailing to close to the doldrums and he still carried on?” Pappy was shaking his head as he carved into a block of wood.

“Yeah,” Kocher replied, “decided to try and take the most direct route, I think he's just trying to beat all of the other ships in the squadron to Kingston.”

“And now we're stuck.”

“Not only are we stuck,” Brad sighed, “but I was speaking to Fick this morning, and he says we're drifting further south.”

Both Pappy and Kocher exchanged worried glances.

“So,” Kocher asked, “we're moving further into the doldrums.”

“And further off course” Pappy added.

Brad went back to cleaning the musket. 

“Yeah, and the more time we stay here the more chance of getting caught in a storm when the weather changes.”

The doldrums were known for periods of calm and then tumultuous storms, if they drifted further off course and then something happened to them, the chances of the other ships of the fleet finding them were slim.

“You were talking to Fick eh?”

Brad raised his brows at Pappy, challenging him.

“So what if I was? He's privy to the stupid goings on of the wardroom, and is decent enough to inform me of some of them.”

“Calm down Brad, I just wanted to ask what you thought of him. You seem to be pretty close.”

Brad thought about that for a minute. They had taken to spending time with one another. Either looking over charts and discussing tactics for sea battles, or finding a quiet corner to debate politics or current events. Nate had even opened up about his family and his past.

He considered whether Pappy would be interested in hearing that Fick's father was a Squire somewhere in Kent, and had shipped his son off to boarding school after the death of his mother. Or how Fick had decided to join the navy instead of going to university because visiting the coast with his mother was one of his most cherished memories.

Instead he said;

“He's a gentleman, well educated, seen action and knows how to command.” Brad shrugged. “I think considering the other officers we have, we're lucky to have him.”

Pappy nodded.

“I don't care where he's from. He's the sort of officer who listens to his men, we saw that when he actually got that shot for Poke. He could have just ignored him and tried to impress the Captain, but instead he went and bloody got it.” Kocher said emphatically.

“You don't have to remind me Kocher, I was there with him remember.”

“ How many officers have you met who would do that the moment they got on the ship? I'm telling you, the first thing he thinks about is us and we need to protect that.”

Pappy rolled his eyes. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

The men fell silent.

How would they keep the stupidity of their commanding officers from destroying the idealism of Lieutenant Fick?

…

Two days passed and still no wind.

They had drifted even further south and were now practically on the equator. 

The scorching heat of the day would let up into the mugginess of the night.

And still they floated, the current shifting them on and the sails hanging limply.

…

By the fifth day of no wind the men seemed to exist in some timeless haze.

Bells would be rung to change the watch and sailors would trudge up from below decks to slump into their positions.

The men of the relieved watch would walk past, sometimes with small words of greeting, but often just acknowledging them with a nod, as if anything more would expand too much energy.

The officers mainly stayed below decks as well.

The  _ Bravo _ was a ghost ship.

…

Day ten of the doldrums.

“I have two men in my berth with sun stroke Captain”, Dr Bryan was recounting the day's casualties, “and another in his own hammock also severely dehydrated.”

“What do you suggest we do Doctor?” Schwetje was becoming concerned that he would lose men before even getting to Kingston.

Bryan huffed, his scowl deepening.

“There isn't much we can do, sir. Apart from trying to get out of the doldrums.”

“I'm afraid that is out of our hands.”

“Then there isn't much any of us can do.” Bryan stood up. “I must return to my patients now.”

In the gloom of the gun deck, crew number two of the port side stood around Walt as he shivered in his hammock.

“Should we go and get Doc?” Lilley whispered to Garza.

“No,” Garza whispered back, “he's got two in his cabin worse than Walt. Doc said that the shivering is normal, and if we keep getting him water he'll be fine.”

“ But we've got to go on watch.”

“Well, we'll find someone coming off watch to look after him.”

Leaving Walt with murmured apologies, they went up onto the heat of the main deck.

“Hey, Ray.” Garza grabbed the man as he went past. “I know you're probably tired, but could you look after Walt for us? He came off Afternoon Watch in not good shape.”

Ray's eyes widened, suddenly happy that he had managed to get evening watches for the next few days.

“Uh, yeah sure.”

He scurried down below decks and found Walt moving restlessly in his hammock, naked as the day he was born, sweating profusely and shivering violently.

“Hey mate.” Ray stepped forward and for once was lost for words.

Walt looked up at him with a weary expression.

“Come to have a laugh at my expense  R ay?” He tried for a smile but Ray thought it was more of a grimace.

“Nah mate, you're crew asked me to look after you.”

“Is that code for you killing me or something? I know you say you're a death dealing warrior and all, but I never thought you were actually serious.”

Ray sat down and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“No Walt, I'm being serious now though. What do you need, water? Some uh, clothes maybe?”

“God no. My skin feels like it's on fire.”

“But you're shivering.”

“Still too warm.” Walt paused, biting his lip trying not to let on how wretched he felt. “I would like some water though.” He said in barely a whisper.

Ray shook his head. Even naked, shivering and really fucking ill, Walt still refused to show weakness.

“Yeah, here you go.” He grabbed a cup and handed it to Walt. 

Walt grabbed it and swallowed most of it down in one gulp. When he was done he leant his head back and held the cup out to Ray.

“Do you want more?”

Walt shook his head.

“No, I just want to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Can you stay?”

Walt was looking at him through half open eyes, his expression guarded, waiting for Ray to brush him off and say something like “I'd love to mate but I have to go off and sod Brad, you know, keep him happy with my magic cock.”

Instead Ray gently patted his shoulder and quietly said;

“Sure, whatever you need.”

Walt let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slipped into oblivion.

When Garza and Lilley came back four hours later they found Walt sleeping peacefully and Ray looking over him like a worried mother.

“How is he?” Garza asked.

“Tired, he went to sleep not long after I got here.” Ray held up a rag. “I've been uh, sponging him with this. He's stopped shivering and I don't think he's to o hot any more. I dunno.” He looked back to Walt. “Seems pretty peaceful though, wish I could sleep that well.”

“We can take over if you like Ray, you can get some food.”

Ray took one last concerned look at Walt, realized he was in goods hands, and left to scav e nge some food from the cook.

…

The next day they found the wind again.

They had drifted to just off the coast of South America, but they had found the wind.

When the sails had lifted and began to flutter again, Nate thought he was hallucinating. 

The rest of the men on deck had stared at them, as if not quite believing their eyes, for a moment time seemed to stand still as the sails and the ship came to life,  the waves lapping against the hull and the rigging creaking . 

“Well it's about fucking time.” Of course Ray was the one to break the silence, and the men erupted into cheers and whoops of celebration.

They hugged each other and jumped up and down, throwing hats and shirts into the air and acting like children.

Nate was grinning like a maniac and turned to Brad who was standing beside him.

Brad was trying to suppress a grin just as wide, but failing spectacularly.

“Well sir, I guess you sailors have actually got something to do now other than plan a mutiny against mother nature herself.” He was surprised when Fick threw his head back and let out a shout of a laugh.

“Now Lieutenant, we show you marines what sailors really do.” Nate replied clapping him on the back.

The wide smile and bright green eyes that met his were infectious with their mirth, and Brad was soon laughing as well.

In the delirium, Brad caught himself thinking that he should kiss those lips that he had been trying to ignore for so many days.

The emotions running through the deck and from his Lieutenant into him almost had him pushing all propriety aside and grabbing Fick by the collar to press his mouth to his.

Suddenly he stopped laughing.

When would that ever be acceptable? What was he thinking? Fick was his superior. Dare he say it his friend. Fick would hate him, probably punch him in the face and tell him to never touch him again.

Brad quickly stepped out of Fick's loose embrace and looked away.

Fick seemed to sense the shift in Brad's mood as he began to look concerned.

“Brad? Is everything alright?”

'Brad?' When had first names been okay? All of his boundaries that he had put up, everything that he used to keep up his Iceman mystique was starting to crumble.

“No sir,” Brad tried to sound as neutral as he could, “everything is fine.”

“Please Brad, I think we know each other well enough to dispense with the 'sirs' in private conversation.” Nate was trying for a light tone but Brad could detect  the disappointment.

“That would be inappropriate sir, and unprofessional.” Brad took another step away. 

“I need to go and report to Wynn, good day sir.”

They exchanged salutes and Brad practically ran down below decks with a very confused Nate standing in his wake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always saw Stafford and Christeson as the kids in the back of Nate's truck, with Wynn and Nate as the parents. The dynamic of Nate as a teacher as well as a leader is always interesting, and it also means we get to see more of Nate protecting and loving his men (not just Brad, nudge nudge, wink wink).
> 
> Sea Jargon:
> 
> Longitude - Geographic co-ordinate that specifies the east west position of something, in this case a ship on the open ocean. When you calculate the Latitude you can then accurately position yourself on a map.
> 
> This is in theory, at the time naval navigation was only just starting to get to grips with calculating longitude, which is very difficult. It was only after the invention of the chronometer in 1773 that Longitude could be accurately found, before navigators would use the position of the moon and mars to determine Longitude. But this was not very accurate and most of the naval disasters of the time were due to poor navigation.  
> The chronometer however was expensive and not all Captains could afford one. In this case, let us assume that Schwetje would buy a Chronometer and that there will be minimal navigational issues, for now.
> 
> Doldrums - An area of the earth's oceans, around the equator, known for changeable conditions including long periods of low to no winds. Ships caught in such conditions could be stuck at the mercy of the ocean currents for days or even weeks.


End file.
